


Reptile

by Horribibble



Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV), teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: BAMF! Stiles, Demonic Possession, Demons, Gen, Stiles is a baby genius, Superwolf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2013-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-17 13:06:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/867875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Horribibble/pseuds/Horribibble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You killed your mother, and now you're killing me. </p><p>Sheriff Stilinski had no idea just how right he was. </p><p>--</p><p>“Your mommy made such a dirty deal, and then she saw your big brown eyes, and she started to pray. She actually thought that someone was listening.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reptile

**Author's Note:**

> I've become quite taken with the idea of Demon!Stiles because, hey, it's impossible not to. But then I remembered Stiles' hallucination at Lydia's party, and I wondered...
> 
> What if he was right?

**You killed your mother,**

**And now you’re killing me.**

* * *

 

  
He hadn’t meant to, really. He’d been so young when it happened—or, at least, it seemed that way. _Felt_ like it. Felt like being an infant again—bare bones and baby fat. His mother had whispered to him, now and then, called him her precious little baby boy as she ran her fingers through his hair.

When his father had been off shift, there had been those precious flashes of a real family—the way they’d been before, before she’d gotten sick.

Before her ten years were up.

After that, all that was really left was thin skin and eager fingers, waiting to work their way between his ribs. She was good at pretending, this Mrs.Stilinski-thing.

But when things were quiet, and she pressed Stiles’ head to her belly, her chest, he could feel the her under the skin—the thing that moved and hissed and waited.

 

* * *

 

She went through lotion like it was water.

Said it made her skin feel perfect, asked him how it was he couldn’t appreciate the softness of his own human hide.

She _bit_ him.

Made him bleed.

Her eyes flooded dark, watching him, measuring the sum of his parts and flesh, and she smiled with teeth that didn’t belong to her. “Are you going to tell on me, little boy?”

Stiles told his dad that it had happened at school. That he had mouthed off and some kid had dug his teeth in.

He said that it had been his fault, and his father made him march upstairs and put Neosporin and a band-aid on it. They didn’t talk at all during dinner.

Sheriff Stilinski was very disappointed. After all, his kid getting into fights was the last thing he needed.

But his kid never really knew when to stop.

  

* * *

 

“Scott,” Stiles said, “Do you ever wonder if it’s hot in hell? Or if it’s cold, maybe, like in the _Inferno?_ ”

Scott blinked at him, confused and more than a little concerned.

“Are you okay, man? Is it about your mom?”

“She always asks for more blankets.” Stiles said.

Scott rubbed his shoulder, gentle and comforting even at eleven years old. Stiles would appreciate it if he weren’t somewhere else completely—if Scott had any idea just what was busy eating his mom, because it sure as fuck wasn’t cancer.

Stiles wondered sometimes if it even _had_ a name.

“She could get better.” Scott tried, but it’s not enough.

He doesn’t doubt that his mother tried. He’d seen the pain, heard her whisper, _I’m sorry oh g-d I’m sorry just shoot me take daddy’s gun and **hi there little guy would you just look at those cheekbones I bet you’ll fuck like a champ someday.**_

It must have been cold in hell.  
  


* * *

 

He sat in the bedside chair, listening to the steady beeping of the heart monitor and watching as the thing-that-wasn’t-his-mother pretended to sleep. He watched the steady rise and fall, the hitching when she—when _it_ —couldn’t help but laugh.

It cracked one of his mother’s bright, bright eyes open and looked him up and down. “Well, aren’t you going to ask what’s so funny?”

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to ask. He didn’t want to _know_.

“I’ll tell you anyway, since you’re such a pretty little boy. You’re _my_ pretty little boy, now. We’re going to have **so** much fun. Your daddy, too. Oh, your daddy’s gonna taste so good. I think I’ll kiss him today.”

Stiles felt his stomach turn. He’d rather burn its fucking lips off. In fact, the very thought made him wet his open lips, red tongue darting out and flickering.

His mother’s eyes went dark, no individual details—just the unfathomable black gouges in what used to be a pretty face. His mother’s lips turned up in a hungry smile. “Oh, _honey._ Do you want one, too? Or is it your daddy? Wonder how you got such pretty lips…”

He was only twelve, but he understood what that meant. He knew a lot more than the demon thought he did. He was more capable, too.

He’d been taking care of his dad for a while, now, and he’d _keep_ taking care of him when this thing finally _died_.

“I’ll kiss him, and I’ll tell him I feel _so_ much better today, because our baby boy is _just_ the right medicine.”

It laughed again, because it had no idea. It said, “Your mommy made such a dirty deal, and then she saw your big brown eyes, and she started to _pray_. She _actually thought_ that someone was listening.”

It was **_asking_ ** for it.

And Mrs.Stilinski had always taught him to be considerate.

He was quiet as he got to his feet.

He even smiled a little when he went to the IV.

He reached out to pet soft brown hair, a paper-cool cheek. He rubbed his thumb against his mother’s high cheekbone and said, “I was listening, mom.”

He hummed along to the sound of the machines as she flat-lined, didn’t say another word for three whole days.

  

* * *

 

 

At the service, the sheriff’s son was slow to approach the casket. With his shoulders sloped in, he looked so small. He leaned over to place a kiss on his mother’s cheek and whispered, “I hope you’re still awake in there, because _this_ is the fucking punch line.”

 

* * *

 

At seventeen years old, Stiles stands at the crossroads in the heart of the preserve, baseball bat in hand. He scuffs the dirt beneath his feet and feels like _laughing._

Where he goes from here is entirely up to him.

**Author's Note:**

> A thousand thanks to the amazing [starshipsandsuperheroes](http://starshipsandsuperheroes.tumblr.com/) who, aside from being generally wonderful and brilliant, was a great help with polishing this story, smoothing out transitions, and helping me improve pretty much everything. 
> 
> Go drop her a line!
> 
> You can find me [here](http://littleplasticmonster.tumblr.com/).


End file.
